Woman

Like a sweet vine, and you talk, talk to bobbing heads like apples that your veins will never reach, for all their climbing they are ripped down in the name of preservation you are moved and moving, but a trunk too thick will never cease to clench its ground Cradled in hand, you are only ever docile till thrown away as if docility were vile you are a sweet sweet vine and the dirt is unafraid of your travels will they ever be?

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